House By The Side Of The Road
by EKWTSM9
Summary: To celebrate the spring, a little light-hearted foolishness.
1. Chapter 1

**Just a little something for the spring; only two chapters, I'm afraid.**

Sergeant Norm Haseejian circled the dark blue sedan, frowning at the ring of keys in his left hand as he tried to find the one that opened the trunk. His thick pasty white legs protruded from the blue and yellow Bermuda shorts; a much-laundered grey t-shirt with faded blue lettering under an unbuttoned red and green Hawaiian shirt, thick grey socks and dirty white sneakers completed the ensemble. A beat-up black Giants cap was stuffed into a back pocket.

Finding the right key, he opened the trunk and was reaching inside when a deep booming voice floated over the chirping birds and nearby traffic. "Geez, Norm, don't you think it's a little chilly out for shorts."

Grunting as he straightened up, six wooden baseball bats in his arms, Haseejian glanced over his shoulder. "We go through this every year… As long as the weather's still good enough to play softball, I wear shorts. I can't help it if you guys are too… _sensitive_. Cripes, you're all natives, aren'tcha?"

Sergeant Dan Healey and Inspectors Bill Tanner and Lee Lessing had joined him at the back of the sedan, taking turns reaching into the spacious trunk to remove the rest of the gear. The Armenian detective was already on the other side of the fence, where he dropped his load of bats on the ground and was picking them up one at a time and leaning them against the wire backstop.

Lessing, his arms laden with three dirty white canvas bags, walked past homeplate on his way to the field. Tanner, his Rawlings glove tucked under one arm, arrived with a bag of softballs, which he dumped out onto the dirt. Healey brought up the rear with a cooler, dropping it heavily onto the ground beside the long bench. The sound of ice sloshing against cans and bottles could be heard even over his not-so-subtle groan.

Haseejian had straightened up and was looking at the other side of homeplate; he frowned, pursing his lips. "Geez, I hate it when we play the DA's office. They all got those matching t-shirts and caps. They look like a team." He glanced at Healey and his frown deepened. "We just look like a bunch of out of shape, middle-aged…cops!" he finished lamely.

"Hey, speak for yourself!" a fresh voice cut through the growing din, and all three homicide detectives looked up as Steve Keller, wearing jeans, Nikes, a black-and-white checked shirt over a pristinely white t-shirt and a broad grin, strode up to Tanner, who grinned back. The two younger man slapped hands and embraced each other with a laugh; Tanner beamed and cackled at Haseejian, who growled and glanced over at his partner, sitting on the end of the bench and opening the cooler. Healey chuckled.

Steve pulled the dark glasses down from his hair and settled them over his eyes. He looked across the diamond at the opposition and smiled appreciatively. He glanced at Tanner and his smile got even wider. "I do so love it when we play the DA's office. They have some pretty nice looking women over there, don't you think?"

Tanner laughed. "Yeah, that new co-ed rule they put in last year… the best decision this league has made in years…"

Steve nodded, bobbing his eyebrows. "You can say that again." He took the black Rawlings mitt from under his arm and slipped it on his left hand as he picked up one of the balls from the ground. "Stay out there, Lee!" he yelled as the young black inspector began to jog in from where he had just dropped third base.

"Yeah, I'll bring your glove out to you," Tanner added as he picked up the brown Wilson mitt Lessing had left on the ground near the bench and jogged to the outfield. The three inspectors spent the next ten minutes playing catch and warming up as they waited for the rest of the teams to show up.

For as long as Steve had been in Homicide, and even before in Vice, he had, when able, played in the ad hoc softball league that had formed years before. Games were irregular, as were the teams, but between the DA's office; City Hall; Robbery, Vice and Homicide from the police department, and various teams from different fire stations, they managed to get in several contests every summer.

Though some softball did get played, it was mostly an excuse to spend an afternoon or two outdoors, getting a little exercise and relaxing with colleagues a world away from their daily grinds. And though drinking was, by and large, prohibited, a blind eye was always turned and many a beer consumed before the day was over. But no one ever drove home drunk and a good time was had by all.

Steve and Lee jogged in from the outfield and Steve dropped his glove onto the bench, reaching into the cold water and ice in the cooler and snagging a beer. As he popped the top, he glanced over at Healey, sitting on the bench with a clipboard and a pen in hand. "Where do you want me today?" he asked, taking a sip of the cold brew and looking over Healey's shoulder at the line-up.

Healey glanced up from under the brim of his Giants cap. "How about second today. And I want you batting third, behind Bill and before Lee. That okay with you?"

Steve swallowed the beer. "Sure." He glanced around. "Why haven't we started yet? What's the delay?"

Healey stared at the clipboard, frowning. "Oh, the, ah, the umpire isn't here yet."

With a frustrated sigh, Steve looked over at Lee. "Wanna do a little BP while we're waiting?"

The younger man nodded. "Sure," he agreed, reaching for a bat and tossing Steve the ball.

"Wait, wait," Haseejian's voice stopped them, "the umpire's here. Let's get this started. I got a hot date tonight!" he cackled, and everyone within earshot laughed.

Steve dropped his glove onto the bench and picked his beer up. He was just about to sit when he looked towards the umpire, who was slipping the chest protector over his head. He froze and his face fell; he shook his head slowly. "No… no…no, no, no," he whined quietly in disbelief.

Healey, who had glanced at the umpire, looked up at his colleague and, feigning confusion while trying to rein in his grin, asked innocently, "Oh, did I forget to tell you Art wasn't available… family wedding or something… so Mike volunteered to ump today...?"

Steve stood stockstill, staring at his partner who, settling the protector into position on his shoulders and clipping it into place, put the Giants cap back on his head and smiled benevolently. "Hey, buddy boy, surprised to see me here?"

A dead silence settled quickly as the partners stared at each other, one with a broad open grin, the other with trepidation. The other pairs of nearby eyes, all colleagues, glanced rapidly from one to the other, trying not to chortle at the lengthening standoff.

Finally Mike raised his eyebrows and held out his hands, palms up. "What? You don't like the way I ump?"

"You called me out on strikes the last time, if you remember correctly? In the bottom of the seventh… with the bases loaded."

"Yes, I remember," Mike said carefully, "and that was because you stood there looking at a ball that was low and away but definitely in the strike zone."

"It was low and _inside,_ and _not_ in the strike zone."

"It might not have been in _your_ strike zone, but it was in _my_ strike zone. And mine's the one that counts." Mike picked up the mask from the bench and put it on top of his cap, then clapped his hands loud enough to attract everyone's attention. Ignoring his partner, who continued to stare at him with open-mouthed disbelief, he crossed towards homeplate and, bending down, he took a small brush out of his back pocket and dusted the base.

With a backward glance, Steve walked over to the bench and sat heavily between Healey and Haseejian, ignoring their smirks and muffled chuckles.

"Oh, yeah," Haseejian said quickly, trying to sound nonchalant, "I forgot to tell you, Mike's gonna be umping today. Art can't make it."

Steve turned to him slowly, his eyes narrowing behind the dark glasses, staring long enough that the sergeant's goofy grin wavered and slowly disappeared. Shifting uncomfortably, Haseejian leaned forward and towards Healey, pretending to look at the clipboard.

Clearing his throat, Healey handed the line-up to his partner and got to his feet. "I, ah… we have to flip a coin." Openly chuckling as he glanced at the miffed inspector between them, Healey walked towards homeplate where ADA Mills was standing patiently beside Mike.

The lieutenant looked from the ADA to his sergeant, then he flipped the quarter and caught it on the back of his left hand. "Tails," Mills said, and Mike revealed the coin. He looked at Dan questioningly.

"We'll take the field," the Homicide sergeant said confidently, then returned to his team.

Mike bent down, dusted the plate one more time then turned towards the field and pulled the mask down over his face. "Play ball!" he yelled.


	2. Chapter 2

Inspector Lee Lessing stepped to the plate. With Robbery Inspector Brian Ritchie pitching, the cops had managed to keep the DA's office from scoring, leaving two runners on base. The pitcher began his wind up, and Mike leaned forward, his left hand lightly on the catcher's back as he waited for the pitch.

"Hey, batter batter batter…" began the catcalls from the lawyers' bench. "Swing, batter, swing."

Calling time, Lessing took a step back, out of the box, as the underhanded throw came over the plate.

"Ball!" Mike yelled as he straightened up, the catcher turning to him with a frown. The older man looked down and shrugged. "He called time."

Scowling, the catcher growled, "You can't call time in softball…"

Grinning, Lessing stepped back into the box, winking quickly at his boss before hefting the bat again. On the third pitch, he sent a looper into shallow right. Healey, batting second, ground out but advanced Lessing to second.

Steve, taking a couple of cuts with a red-handled Louisville Slugger, approached the plate. He glanced at his partner with a smirk and raised eyebrows. "How small is your strike zone today?" he asked sotto voce.

Mike, getting into position, stopped mid-bend, his glare turning slowly in the batter's direction. "You're about to find out."

Chuckling, Steve took another warm-up swing, tugged the bill of his baseball cap lower then set himself, staring at the pitcher. Two pitches, the first a ball, the second a swinging strike, crossed the plate. The catcalls continued from the opposite bench.

The pitcher let the ball fly. Steve swung and there was a loud crack as the bat hit the ball and it started to sail quickly towards right field. He dropped the bat and started to run towards first. Mike straightened up, pulling off the mask and heading a few steps down the first base line, watching the trajectory of the ball.

His head down, running for all he was worth, Steve rounded first; Lessing had already touched third and was on his way home. Touching second base, his head still down, hearing his teammates yelling at him to keep running, Steve was approaching third when he heard Mike yell, "Foul ball!"

A groan went up from the cops' bench as both Lessing, who was just crossing the plate, and Steve pulled up quickly. Leaning forward, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees, Steve stared across the diamond as his partner turned back to homeplate, facing the backstop as he took out the brush and cleaned the plate before putting the mask back on and stepping behind the catcher. Steve flashed a commiseratingly peeved look at Lessing, who was jogging past the mound on his return to second. The younger black man just threw his hands up and chuckled.

Still gasping for breath, Steve crossed to homeplate, picking up the bat and getting back into the box. He glared at the umpire as he did so, but Mike just ignored him, tossing a replacement ball to the pitcher before he resumed his place behind the catcher. "Foul ball, my ass," Steve murmured as he turned towards the mound.

"What was that?" Mike asked with feigned innocence; under his touch he could feel the catcher chuckle.

The ball sailed across the plate, a little outside the strike zone. Steve took a step back and regrouped as the catcher threw the ball to the pitcher. Staring in at his battery mate, the pitcher nodded. The ball looped into the air and dropped into the catcher's glove right in the middle of the plate.

"Strike three!" Mike yelled as he took a step back and straightened up. Steve froze, the bat still over his shoulder. The older man cleared his throat slightly. "That means you're out," he said matter-of-factly, just loud enough for both benches to hear. Muffled chuckles came from both directions.

Very slowly, Steve lowered the bat and turned back to his teammates, studiously avoiding his partner, who was watching him with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile. Tossing the bat on the ground near the chain link fence, he dropped heavily onto the bench beside Healey as a laughing Haseejian got up to move to the on deck circle as a Vice sergeant stepped into the box.

Healey dared to shoot a sidelong glance as the miffed inspector beside him. "He was right, you know," he said softly, "it _was_ right across the plate."

Steve's green eyes slid in the sergeant's direction. "I know. That's what bothers me."

Chuckling, Healey's stare went back to the batter's box. "Come on, Charlie, get us a hit! Bring Lee home!"

# # # # #

In the top of the fourth, with the cops in the field, DA paralegal Rick Walters stepped to the plate. He had already driven in two runs in the second with a round-tripper, and everyone in the outfield took several steps back. This kid could hit. There was a runner on second, but with no threat of a base being stolen, Steve was in shallow left. Tanner was pitching.

The first pitch sailed a little high and outside.

"Ball one!" Mike yelled, his left hand lightly on Lessing's back. The young inspector had caught the ball expertly and tossed it back to the mound. Tanner leaned in, staring at his catcher, then nodded and snapped the ball underhanded towards the plate.

Walters took a cut, the bat slicing the air as the ball slipped underneath, untouched, and into Lessing's mitt.

"Strike one!"

"Way to go, Bill!" "That's it! Two more of those!" "Yowza!" came the shouts of encouragement from the field and the bench. "Come on, Rick, hit it out a the park again!" "Pitcher's got a rubber arm!" "Home run, home run, home run…!" were some of the yells from the DA's bench.

Tanner took a deep breath and leaned forward, nodding at Lessing again. Once more he reared back slightly, his right arm swiveling, releasing the ball at just the right moment.

Walters stepped into the ball as it reached the plate, the bat beginning its forward trajectory. It was a home run swing. The wooden bat connected with the ball, but not as solidly as everyone was expecting. Lessing, who had raised his mitt to intercept the ball should Walters miss it, saw the ball skip off the bat and fly over his shoulder. He heard it hit the umpire's mask.

Everyone saw Mike's head snap back and the older man staggered backwards a couple of steps. All sound and movement ceased as everyone watched the lieutenant begin to straighten up and reach for the mask, but as his hand grabbed the metal cage he seemed to lose his balance and sat heavily on the dirt behind home plate.

Lessing turned sharply and Walters lowered his bat, moving quickly to stand over the fallen man. "Mike!" Steve shouted as he started to race across the diamond, pulling his glove off as he ran. Both benches had emptied and there was a crowd around homeplate by the time he got there. As he pushed his way through the others, he could hear his partner's voice.

"I'm okay, everybody, don't worry. I'm okay."

Steve elbowed his way in front of the players circling the homicide lieutenant, who was still sitting on the ground, the mask in his right hand and an almost embarrassed grin on his face. He raised his left hand. "Really, I'm okay," he said again when he spotted his partner's worried frown.

Sighing in relief, Steve reached out and grabbed the older man's hand, pulling him to his feet. The others started back to the field or their benches. As Steve watched, Mike started to brush the dirt from his pants.

"You sure you're okay?"

Mike looked up at him, a grateful smile on his lips and in his eyes. "I'm fine. Just rattled my noodle for a second. Rick here has quite the downtown swing," he said reassuringly, raising his voice slightly so Walters would hear the compliment. The paralegal smiled, looking down and knocking the bat against the plate a couple of times. "Just do me a favour, will ya?" Mike continued with a chuckle in his voice. "Next time, hit _all_ of the ball, okay?"

"I'll try, Lieutenant…. uh, Mike."

With a chuckle of his own, Steve glanced at Walters before starting to jog back out to his position. "Just make sure you hit it foul, okay?" he warned Walters half-seriously as he passed.

The aspiring lawyer turned to the lieutenant with raised eyebrows. "He's not joking," Mike laughed as he put the mask on and moved to stand behind Lessing again.

# # # # #

An hour later, with the DA's office leading 8 to 5 in the bottom of the fifth, Steve stepped to the plate for the third time. He had driven in a run in the third inning with a double to left, then scored himself when Haseejian looped a ball over second, dropping in front of the centerfielder. He was now facing the DA's best pitcher with the bases loaded and two out.

Very quickly, the count climbed to three and two, the second strike a swinging one so Steve had no one to blame but himself. As the pitcher stared in at the catcher, he put the bat over his shoulder and was just leaning in to follow the pitch when he heard Mike clear his throat slightly; he didn't respond.

The ball left the pitcher's hand and began to sail through the air towards the plate in a perfect parabolic curve. Standing his ground and, though he flinched almost imperceptibly, Steve resisted the urge to swing, instantly proud of himself for his discipline.

"Stee-rike three!" came the loud call from behind him, and instantaneously both benches erupted, one in elation, the other in disbelief.

Frozen, as if doubting what he'd just heard, the homicide inspector stood as if rooted to the spot, then very slowly turned his head to the right, staring directly into the familiar blue eyes that glared back, wide with anticipation. "That… was low," he said quietly.

"That was over the plate."

Steve straightened up, dropping the bat to the ground, and turned his body to face the older man, who had removed the mask. Surreptitiously, the catcher quietly tossed the ball towards the mound and slipped out from between the two homicide detectives with a furtive backwards glance, trying to suppress a grin.

Steve took a step forward. "That was low," he said again.

"And I said it was over the plate."

Steve took another step forward, turning his baseball cap backwards as he did, so they were nose to nose, although because of the height difference he had to look up. "It was over the plate if I was four foot two."

"It was over the plate no matter how short you think you are."

Steve opened his mouth to retort, paused, thought about that for a second, shook his head then managed to get even closer, almost leaning against Mike's chest protector. "It was a ball," he growled.

The older man's eyes narrowed. "It was a strike. You stood there like the house by the side of the road and watched it go by."

Steve's head snapped back and he froze, his eyes narrowing, confused and thrown again. Then he shook his head and inhaled deeply. "It was a ball and you know it!" His voice was starting to get a little higher.

"It was exactly what I called it – a strike! And you're out!" Mike took a step forward and deliberately pushed the chest protector against the younger man. Steve stumbled backwards slightly, caught himself, glared at the older man, then began kicking dirt onto his sneakers.

Mike stood silently, looking down at his young partner's Earl Weaver impersonation in open-mouthed disbelief. At both benches, everybody was watching the display with barely concealed hilarity. Chuckling quietly, Haseejian had a hand over his mouth as he leaned closer to Healey and whispered, "Do you think one of us should break that up before they start taking a poke at each other?"

With a quiet laugh, Healey shook his head. "Nah, they won't go that far. They're just letting off a little steam. It'll do them both some good, I think."

No one noticed the black-and-white that slid to a stop on the street, the passenger getting out and crossing quickly to the ball diamond. Haseejian was the first to notice the uniformed officer who had stopped, staring at Mike and Steve with a furrowed brow. He nudged Healey. "Did you call the cops?"

"What?" Healey asked, turning to his partner in confusion then freezing when he saw the officer standing a few feet away.

The patrolman glanced at the cops on the bench then turned once more to the two homicide detectives; everything in his body language screamed his reluctance to interrupt what was obviously a serious disagreement between the lieutenant and his partner.

" Um, ah… ah, Lieutenant…. ah, Lieutenant Stone, sir," the patrolman tried to interrupt the escalating argument.

Mike and Steve froze briefly then two pairs of eyes turned slowly in the direction of the unfamiliar voice.

"Um, sir, ah, could I have a word with you, please… ah, sir…?"

The blue eyes flicked briefly towards his partner then back to the unie. For a split second Mike thought it was about the scene that had been unfolding, but he quickly realized it was another matter altogether. With one more scowl at Steve, his mask still in his hand, he followed the blond patrolman closer to the cruiser.

As Steve watched him go, he picked up the bat and crossed slowly to the bench, not seeming to notice both Healey's and Haseejian's feeble attempts to contain their amusement. "Out, my ass," he growled as he threw the bat towards the fence and dropped heavily onto the bench. "I'm gonna buy him a pair of bifocals." He looked up at Haseejian, who was biting his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. "What?" Steve whined, and the Armenian sergeant could only shake his head, not trusting his voice.

"Steve!" Mike's voice sailed at him from several yards away and Steve glanced up to see Mike striding back to the diamond, taking off his cap and starting to pull the chest protector off over his head. As he dropped the gear onto the bench, Mike nodded over his shoulder. "We gotta go. Leave your car here and we'll take mine."

Suddenly all business, Steve stood quickly and nodded. Healey looked up. "Go. We'll bring your stuff to the office. Want Lee to drive your car to your place?"

Steve dug into his jeans pocket for his keys, handing them over. "Yeah, thanks."

"Sorry, fellas," Mike said with an apologetic shake of his head as he started towards his car, fishing for his own keys. Steve jogged to catch up.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know. I just know the mayor wants to see us."

"The mayor?"

Mike nodded. "The mayor." He circled the blue sedan and got in as Steve slid into the passenger seat. A few seconds of silence filled the car as both men deliberated on the seriousness of a situation that required an audience with the mayor.

They were well on their way to City Hall when Steve looked across the front seat and smiled. "So, ah, what was that you said back there? Something about a house on the side of the road…?"

Mike frowned then his face lit up and he laughed. "Oh, yeah. The announcer for the Tigers… Harwell. I, ah, I read an article about him in Sports Illustrated a year or so ago. That's one of his. I just thought it was funny and for some reason I remembered it."

"And you've been waiting all this time just to use it?"

Mike turned to the younger man and grinned. "Yeah, I guess I have, buddy boy, I guess I have." His laughter filled the car.

Smiling affectionately and shaking his head, Steve looked out the side window. Not for the first time a comforting warmth washed over him. Chuckling, he reached across the front seat and slapped his partner on the arm.

All in all, it had been a very good day.


End file.
